


All Good Things...

by SassyEggs



Series: Under Construction [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4898692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sansa's birthday, and she's just bound and determined to be miserable, despite Sandor's best efforts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Things...

He didn’t understand what her _problem_ was lately. And not just tonight, either, she’d been impossible to please for months.

The entire evening had been a disaster, though he couldn’t exactly say why. He’d taken her out to a nice restaurant for her birthday, given her what he thought was a nice pair of earrings, even bought a new shirt to wear, just for her. But she’d been huffy and irritable since halfway through dinner, answering his questions with monosyllabic responses and initiating none of the conversation. And now that they were back at her house she’d dumped her gift on the table before retreating to her room, emerging moments later in a ratty t-shirt and sweat pants and plopping on the couch without a single word.

“Do you want to watch a movie or something?” he asked cautiously, still standing near the front door because he just didn’t feel welcome here anymore.

“Since when do you care what I want?” 

What the fuck did _that_ mean? He _always_ cared what she wanted, absolutely everything he did revolved around making her happy. He thought she _knew_ that. Or maybe she knew and she just didn’t care, maybe she wished he’d back away. Maybe she was trying to run him off. Hell, he’d spent a fucking fortune in that jewelry store, so seeing her face fall when she lifted the lid, hearing her unenthusiastic claim that the earrings were ‘pretty,’ noticing that she’d abandoned the box on her table as if it were little more than the junk mail she’d tossed it on top of… why had he even bothered trying?

Not that he shouldn’t have known better. She’d been weird and dismissive for a solid two months, ever since they got back from Chicago, taking offense at everything he said. _Everything_ , even when he was trying to be nice. He came home one day to find her scrunching up her nose in concentration, trying to match his clean socks so she could put them away. And when he told her he didn’t want her doing his laundry he knew right away he’d hurt her feelings. For some reason.

But that wasn’t the only thing. She was always going on and on about some ridiculous thing or another, some magazines she’d left out or a dress she saw in a catalog or asking about his meager work benefits. And he would try to let her know, as politely as he could, that he didn’t really find her topic of conversation particularly interesting, but she would just give him a look like he’d somehow seriously wounded her.

And then he would ask her what her fucking problem was (only he’d ask nicely) and she would always say ‘nothing.’ But she would say it in that way that made him think that she didn’t _really_ mean nothing, and maybe he was supposed to keep asking but… he just didn’t know! If she was upset about something why couldn’t she just say so instead of playing twenty fucking questions?

Hell, he knew he wasn’t boyfriend material, knew he was going to suck at it no matter how hard he tried. But he _had_ tried. He’d done everything he could, everything he knew how.

Looking around her house, her sitting on her couch with her back towards him, ignoring him… there were signs of him everywhere. He’d helped her refinish this floor, helped her paint the walls and pick the carpet and furniture and everything. They’d ‘christened’ every room in this house at Sansa’s insistence, even Margaery’s room though they agreed to never ever tell her. She’d seemed more than happy at the time to have him around, but that was so long ago and things had changed.

He even took her to Chicago, saved every penny he had so he could, just cause she wanted to go. And sure, she’d insisted on paying her own way, but he’d insisted right back that he wanted to do this for her. Because that’s what boyfriends were supposed to do, and damn it, he was trying.

Or how about that time she’d made a pot roast? He thought his jaw might pop out from chewing the leathery meat, thought he might gag on the tasteless and oddly gummy potatoes, but he ate it all anyway just to make her happy. And when she’d smiled and said there was more in the kitchen he’d dutifully gotten up to refill his plate, knowing his stomach would make him pay for it later.

Didn’t that count for _anything?_

Apparently not. And honestly, he couldn’t even blame her. He’d always known it would be over one day, all good things must come to an end or some shit like that. And that day had come. Fuck, the signs were everywhere, and he’d kept his head in the sand hoping they’d go away, but the writing was so clear on the wall he could no longer deny it. And fuck it all, it _hurt_. He’d always thought the flowery songs about broken hearts were senseless, but standing there with his chest ready to rip open he suddenly understood. Because it _did_ feel like it was broken. Been breaking for two months.

“Sansa.”

“Hmm,” she answered dispassionately from the couch, not even turning around.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

 _That_ got her attention, and she snapped her head around to look at him in surprise. Fuck, she was pretty. Why did she have to be so pretty?

“Can’t do what?” she asked slowly, cautiously.

“This… whatever this is. You, sitting there pretending I’m not here, like you’ve been doing for months now. You wouldn’t even look at me at dinner, couldn’t even muster up any of your usual courtesies to thank me for your gift.”

She was gaping at him, clearly confused though she was doing nothing to stop him. Of course she wasn’t. Why would he think she’d try to stop him? He had to get this over with, he had to get out of here.

“I just want you to be happy,” he told her, trying to keep his tone neutral. “And believe me, I _really_ want to be the guy that makes you happy. But I’m not. Am I?”

She didn’t say anything, nothing at all, the house so eerily quiet he would swear he could hear his own heart beating. She was still sitting on the couch gaping at him, confusion replaced with a look of horror across her beautiful face. That face… how he loved that face, how it hurt to know he’d never see it again.

He looked away from her quickly before he could change his mind. “I’ll come by sometime later to get my things,” he said, his voice betraying none of his anguish. Then he walked over to the table and picked up the black velvet box that held the earrings. “I’ll take these now. Since they offend you so much.”

And he left without another look in her direction, walked straight out the door to where his truck was parked outside in the street. _‘Is this the absolute biggest truck you could buy?’_ Damn, even his truck reminded him of her. How was he supposed to survive this? He’d always known he was a strong man, on the inside as well as the outside, so why did he feel so utterly destroyed and helpless over a little girl.

_You’ll get over it. You always do._

“Sandor!”

 _Fuck!_   He didn’t turn around, moved faster towards the street as the sound of footsteps behind him increased. He unlocked and opened his door, tossing the box onto the passenger seat and sliding quickly up into the cab. But before he could shut the door she was there, holding it open, throwing her arms around him and clinging to his body as if her life were dependent on it.

“Sandor,” she gasped into his chest. “Oh god, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”  It was torture having her so close, burying herself against him, and more than anything he wanted to pull her into him and tell her she'd be ok.  But he didn't, he kept his arms to his side and far away from her. 

“But _why?”_ She was crying, he could hear it in her voice, feel it in her body, still clutching him desperately. It was right that she was upset, he supposed. All breakups were hard, even the ones that had to happen. If anything she was probably just worried he was mad at her. That was her style, to worry about others before herself.

“I don’t understand you lately,” he rasped as impassively as he could. “You’re never happy.”

“Of course I’m happy,” she insisted honestly, which took him by surprise; he knew a lie when he heard it, and that wasn’t one. “You’ve just been so distant and dismissive and… it scares me to think you don’t want me anymore, that we don’t want the same thing.”

 _What?_ She thought _he_ was being dismissive? She thought _he_ didn’t want _her_ anymore? That was completely illogical for such a logical girl, but even as those ridiculous words echoed in his head, even as her body shook against his, he resolved to show her nothing. It would be easier for her that way, if she knew he was fine. That didn’t stop him from blurting out a defense, though.

“I tried really hard to give you a nice birthday, Sansa,” he told her, trying equally hard not to sound like he was just complaining. “I thought you’d like the restaurant. I thought you’d like the earrings.”

She dropped her arms and pulled away from him, looking thoroughly abashed. “I _did_ , I just… I thought you were making fun of me.”

It was such an odd thing to say that his mask of indifference slipped, exposing his disbelieving expression. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed in frustration. “That’s why I was so upset!”

“I don’t understand, Sansa. Why would you think I was making fun of you?” and just like that she started crying again, her words spilling out in a blur of nonsense.

“I thought… it’s my birthday… and the fancy dinner… and the tiny box… and then it wasn’t… I thought you were rubbing it in, that you didn’t want what I wanted... after all this time… I keep bringing it up… but you always blow me off… and I thought… the tiny box…”

“Sansa, calm down, you’re not making any sense. Bring _what_ up?”

She had to take several shallow breaths before she could answer, and when she did it exploded out of her louder than necessary. “Marriage!”

“What?” he stammered, completely caught off guard. “You have never once brought up marriage, how was I supposed to know you were even thinking about it?”

This time her mouth fell open, and she just gaped at him with an incredulous expression. “Oh my God, Sandor, I’ve been dropping hints like _crazy!”_

“No, you haven’t,” he insisted, even as he tried desperately to rewind the past two months and search it for clues. _Had_ she been dropping hints? He was pretty sure she hadn’t.

“Yes I have! Remember Chicago? We had such a good time and I started thinking… gosh, it would be nice to make this permanent. So I asked if you’d like to go back for a honeymoon and you just rolled your eyes and said ‘no,’ like it was the dumbest idea in the world.”

“Because we’ve already been…”

“And I have a copy of ‘Brides’ in every room of this house. I easily wasted $150 on bridal magazines just so you would know I was thinking about it. But you just ignored them.”

“Why would I look at your magazines…”

“And remember when I tried to show you pictures of wedding dresses and you said you had no interest, and you kept doing that huffing thing you do and told me you’d rather watch TV?”

“I don’t know anything about dresses…”

“And I was doing your laundry that one time and you got mad at me, and I said I liked taking care of you and you said you didn’t _want_ me to!”

“Well, I don’t want you to be my maid…”

“Or when I asked you if you had health insurance and what your company’s policy was on adding people to it and you said you had no reason to even wonder about that. That’s what you said! _No reason!”_

“Fuck, Sansa, these aren’t _hints_ …” But he shouldn’t have started, because she was crying again.

“And then tonight… with the little box… I thought… I’m sorry, Sandor. They’re beautiful, and I like them, and it was really thoughtful of you. It’s just… it wasn’t what I was hoping for and I… I guess I let that get to me.”

Her arms were around him again, squeezing the breath out of him. She was truly sorry, he could tell, but he was still too flabbergasted that she was ever upset in the first place. “But those aren’t even hints!” he insisted. “They’re just lame attempts at boring conversation.”

She leaned back and gave him a stern look, the one she gave him when he displeased her; he loved that look as much as he hated it. “You’re awful,” she pouted. “I have no idea why I love you. But I do. I’m grateful for you and what we have, and I’m _so sorry_. I’ll… I’ll try not to be so pushy. It’s just… I love you so much and when we’re together all I can think about is _staying_ together and…” She lifted her arms and dropped them again with a sigh of defeat. “Can we just go back inside and watch a movie now? Please? It’s my birthday.”

Wow. Just… wow. He didn’t even know what to say to that. She was looking up into his eyes, pleading with him, hoping he would stay, hoping he would _marry_ her. Five minutes ago he thought it was over. Now? What was he supposed to do?

“Tell you what,” he rasped. “I’m gonna give you the earrings again, and this time you’ll act like you like them.”

“OK,” she blushed, contrite, and he could tell she was still embarrassed about the whole thing. _Good._ Leaning back into the cab of his truck, he quickly opened the glove compartment and pulled out what he was looking for.

“Sansa, I got you something for your birthday!” he announced, sounding intentionally like an actor in a cheesy middle school play, and she laughed softly but genuinely at his joke.

“You _did?”_ Sansa gushed, matching his tone. “What a surprise! I can’t wait to see what it is!”

He handed over the black velvet box with a flourish, and she snatched it up as if she’d just been presented with the keys to a kingdom. She was still smiling when she lifted the lid and gave an exaggerated gasp of delight.

“Oh, I…” she began in feigned glee, but again her face fell, just like at dinner. Again, she just stared at the box in front of her while he watched with bated breath, but this time she ran a finger over the gift before turning wide, uncertain eyes up at him.

“When did you get this?” she asked softly.

“Same time I got the earrings. When we were in Chicago.”

Her attention went back to the box in her hand. He could see her chest heaving as if it were hard to breathe, which he understood since he felt the same way. “When were you going to give it to me?”

“Been wanting to give it to you for a while,” he admitted with a shrug. “I guess I’ve just been waiting for a sign.”

She huffed a small laugh at the irony, looking up at him, then her face fell again as if she couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “You really want to?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I’d be a fool to let you go.”

“You _did_ let me go, you jerk,” she complained, punching him lightly in the shoulder, and he laughed at her because really, he expected no less from the woman he loved. And after a few moments of silence, he did what he was supposed to do, took the box from her and knelt right there in the street, in front of the house he’d helped her renovate. It wasn’t how he would have planned it, or what she deserved, but damn it all he just didn’t want to wait anymore.

“Sansa,” he rasped, voice cracking like a pathetic teenager. “Will you marry me?”

It was stupid, really, this nervous feeling, the way his heart was banging painfully inside his ribcage; she had just _told_ him she wanted to marry him, told him she’d been wanting it for a while. But kneeling there in front of her, with his heart literally in his hands and offered up to her, waiting for an answer… it was the scariest thing he’d ever done in his entire life. And even though he had every reason to believe she would say yes, at that moment all he could think was how a ‘no’ would kill him.

Fortunately, she didn’t make him wait too long.

“Yes, yes, of course yes! Give me my ring back.”

She grabbed the box out of his hand, not even waiting for him to do the honors of putting the ring on, and all he could do was laugh at her enthusiasm. But after she slid it onto her finger she leaned into him, holding her hand up so they could admire it together. It was a plain solitaire, the largest he could afford, set in a simple gold band. A classic, just like her.

“Do you like it?” he asked, the nerves grabbing hold again.

“I love it,” she gasped. “I love _you_. Oh, thank you, it’s beautiful.”

“You’re welcome,” he said as she pecked him quickly on the lips, though in truth he felt like _he_ should be thanking _her_.

“Can I have the earrings, too?” she giggled. Fuck, she was adorable. He wondered if she’d still giggle like that when she was 60 years old and felt his heart seize when he realized he’d be around to find out.

“Maybe for Christmas,” he teased. “If you’re good.”

“Doesn’t matter if I’m good,” she teased right back. “I’m gonna marry you, and then you’ll be stuck with me forever, good bad and ugly.”

“You can be the good. I’ll be the bad and ugly.” She laughed at his joke, even though it was terrible, and reached up to gently push his hair back from his face.

“Oh god, I’m so happy,” she cried again, but this time the tears that fell were happy tears, even he knew that. “You make me so happy.”

“You have low standards,” he grumbled. “Lucky for me.” She gave him that same stern look again and looked like she wanted to say something, but he interrupted that thought with a quick kiss. “You want to go inside and watch a movie?”

“I do,” she said weakly, nodding her head.

She was a liar, though. She didn’t want to watch a movie at all, took him straight back to her room and undressed him, kissed him everywhere while she told him she loved him and how happy it made her to make him happy. He gladly returned the favor, but she was impatient and demanded he be inside her. Which he gave her, of course, since it was her birthday and all, gave her everything he had, everything he knew that would make her happy. He was already wound up from her earlier attention, and far-too-eager to take it slow, so it was truly some sort of birthday miracle when they came together.

It was perfect; _she_ was perfect. He’d stay like this forever if he could, wrapped up in her love and her life and her skin. But he couldn’t, because they were right when they said that all good things must come to an end. And he knew, now, that sometimes they _had_ to end so that the next good thing could begin.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bored.
> 
> I kinda don't like how it ends. May change it if I can think of something better.
> 
> This was influenced in part by a 'conversation' I had once with AdultOrphan (in the comments section) about how men just don't take hints, even when you beat them over the head with them. And while I don't think these hints are particularly great (except the Bridal magazines and asking his opinion on wedding dresses, seriously, those should send some sort of message) I also don't think Sandor was gonna pick up on ANY hints. At all. Gotta give it to him straight, lol.
> 
> Also, it was fun making Sansa wrong and Sandor right. Doesn't happen often, lol.


End file.
